The Problems of Psychical Research by Hereward Carrington (best books to read non fiction TXT) 📕

"For the sake of argument, let us assume that the intelligences that communicate through the organism of Mrs. Piper—and perhaps of some other mediums—are spirits of the departed, and that they temporarily 'possess' the organism of the medium (at least in part) during the process of communicating. That is the generally-held theory, I believe, and the simplest one to account for the facts. If this be true, it is to be supposed that the normal consciousness of the medium is in some manner removed, superseded, or withdrawn, and that only some "vegetable consciousness" remains, as it were, sufficient to keep the organism going until the return of the normal consciousness and normal control by the medium. Meanwhile, the controlling intelligence is, by supposition, influencing the nervous mechanism of the medium's body—directly or indirectly through some etheric medium—and influencing it to write out letters and words by the usual slow and laborious process. That they do find it slow and laborious is evidenced by the fact that all possible abbreviations are adopted—'U.D.' being used for 'Understand'; 'M' is frequently written 'N,' and so on. Even in our normal life we know that thoughts frequently flow faster than we can put them on to paper, and this would almost certainly be the case with spiritual intelligences who have no material brain to hinder their flow of thought. It is probable that the brain is as much an inhibitory organ as anything else; and when this inhibition is removed, it is natural to suppose that the flow of thought would be far less controllable and far more automatic than it is with us. It would be impossible for spirits to check and go on with their stream of thought at will, as we do on this hypothesis; they would be far more automatic and less under the control of the will. If this were true, it would account for much of the confusion present in the communications. Suppose a spirit is trying to communicate some fact or incident in its past life. It is endeavouring to force this thought through, in the face of great difficulties, and while trying to retain its grasp of the organism. Now, let us suppose that this stream of thought is suddenly interrupted by the sitter asking an abrupt question—referring to another incident altogether, and perhaps related to another time in the communicator's life. Is it not natural to suppose that, labouring under these difficulties, and lacking the inhibitory action of the brain, the communicator's mind should wander, and that he should either think aloud to himself as it were (all this coming through as confused writing, be it understood), or that the spirit should lose its grasp of the organism altogether and drift away? The mind cannot retain two vivid pictures at the same time; either one or the other must grow fogged and dim; and this would certainly be so in the case of any communicator, where we may suppose a certain amount of mental energy—corresponding to a mental picture perhaps—is necessitated in the very process of holding the control of the organism. If communications take place at all in reality, we may well suppose that the difficulties of communicating would be so great that all clear, systematic thinking would be impossible. People seem to imagine that the process of communication is as simple as possible, instead of the most delicate and complicated imaginable—the very difficulty being evinced by the rarity of the intelligible communications coming through. If any one were to try the simple subjective test of closing the eyes and attempting to conceive his spirit controlling some other person's organism, he would very easily perceive the tremendous difficulties in the way of controlling an organism other than his own!

"However, my object in writing this letter is not to point out difficulties of this character, which are probably well understood by the majority of the readers of the Journal. It is to draw attention to another fact, and an analogy. Let us take a man in good health, whose brain and mental functions are normal. Let this man be all but killed in a railroad accident. In the jar and shock of the collision this man was thrown (let us say) against an iron post, and his head badly cut and bruised. He was knocked insensible, and it was several hours before he returned to the first dim consciousness of his surroundings. Gradually he would revive. Objects would present themselves to his eyesight vaguely, indistinctly; he would "see men as trees walking." Sounds would be heard, but indistinctly; there would be a vague jumble of noises, and no definite and articulate sounds would be recognized at first, and until consciousness was more fully restored. Tactile sensations, smell and touch, would probably come last, and be least powerful of all; they would not be even distinguishable until consciousness was almost completely normal. All intellectual interests would be abolished, only the most loving and tender thoughts would be entertained or tolerable, and these would be swallowed up, very largely, in the great, central fact that the body and head were in great pain; that the memory was impaired, and that anything like normal thinking and a normal grasp of the organism was impossible. Thoughts would be scattered, incoherent, and only the strongest stimuli would focus the attention on any definite object for longer than a few moments at a time, and perhaps even these would fail. But if oxygen gas were administered to such a person, in moderate doses, he would recover and rally far more quickly and effectually than if no such stimulant were employed. He would rally more quickly, and be enabled to think more clearly and consistently—at least pro tem. In shocks to the living consciousness this would almost certainly be the case.

"Now, when we come to die, the departure of the soul from the body must be a great strain and stress upon the surviving consciousness, and must shock it tremendously—just as the accident shocked it in the case given above. Certainly this would be so in the case of all sudden deaths, and in those cases which 'die hard'; and it is natural to suppose that it would be true also, more or less, in every case of death, however natural—since the separation of consciousness from its brain must be the greatest shock that any given consciousness could receive in the course of its natural existence. But after a time the spirit is supposed to outlive and 'get over' this initial shock, and to regain its normal functions and faculties. In its normal life, it is then supposed to be once more free and unhampered by any of the bodily conditions that rendered its manifestations on earth defective. But when this consciousness comes once more to communicate, it seems to again take on the conditions of